Turkish Delights
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: After leading a harsh life, Matthew encounters a man who would bring immeasurable warmth into his piteous being.
1. Chapter 1

Matthew Williams huddled by the street curb, crying. The rain poured down on him, soaking his thin shirt into his skin and causing his hair to stick to his cheeks. His glasses were fogged up both from his tears and the heat of his face combined. He kept his arms folded beneath him, his face pressed to the cold stone. Each sob shook his shoulders and stomach, causing him at times to hiccup and gasp for breath. The world seemed to have turned on him. The very elements with their onslaught of water bathing him were opposed to his existence. Perhaps they vainly sought to wash him away from the earth and into the gutters.

People that walked by, their umbrellas shielded them from the wet, cast him a casual glance. Matthew felt ashamed. The men and women that passed him thought that it was strange and funny to see a young man weeping like a little girl or lost puppy. One woman, walking with her friend, cast a casual glance in Matthew's direction. She shook her head, looking back at her companion.

"Poor boy! Do you think he ran from home?"

"No, he's much too old. And even if he did I doubt he would stand around…"

The two walked away, ignoring him further as though he was an unsightly dead bug on a picnic table. They moved on to find another, cleaner seat.

Matthew didn't dare raise his head from the stone, his cheek becoming slowly imprinted with the rugged object, spotting his face with dirt.

The woman wasn't too far off. He had run from home. However, "home" was a very loose term. He had hurried from his vicinity, where a couple had reluctantly taken him in after his mother's death. His brother was taken elsewhere. This couple's motives for agreeing to hold him in his household were vague, but obviously malicious. When he woke he only wished to return to the numb, blissful sleep in his cold room before being forced to work as a servant in the small house. Each day he was subjected to avoid school and instead clean the house and do the cooking, his hands often blistering from the onslaught of work. His stomach constantly rumbled for lack of nourishment, save for the bland soup he was allowed at night and the slice of burnt bread in the mornings. Sometimes, if he had behaved especially well or his "owners" were in a decent enough mood they allowed him a bite of his own cooking.

But the suffering was nothing compared to his loneliness. He wouldn't mind having to put up with all the work had it not been for his longing to see his brother, or even his mother as she lay so frail on the bed that it hardly dented. If he could see his brother, his brother with sparkling white teeth and glimmering blue eyes just once more, he would have been content. Neither approached him in the years he had been locked away and abused, sometimes struck, other times ignored completely.

The sorrow he felt for himself and only for himself occurred predominately at night, but at times it bled over into the day. As he held the broom two evenings prior, he had dazed off and began thinking of life with his brother. He imagined running outside, free of chores, and with only the worry of school and the social aspects it brought. He imagined his brother there with him, sweeping the floor and making quiet jokes so no one else heard. Their condition would be miserable but they would have each other and nothing else really mattered. The woman who owned the household, his "owner", shot him a look sour enough to rot apples.

"What are you doing?" She called.

"Oh, I'm just thinking." He said and began to sweep again.

"Thinking about what?" this time she stopped walking and stood at the end of the hall, her hand on her hip, and her lips tightly pursed since her teeth often gave her much pain. Her face was dry and yellow, the rims of her eyes red, and her teeth a ghastly color of urine. She constantly smelt of cigarette smoke. Her husband was only worse, and he hit Matthew when it pleased him and otherwise thought of him as nothing more than a stain on a black sheet. At least the woman was kind enough to offer him something close to sympathy and food if he looked especially starved of either.

Matthew could easily have lied. Instead, stupidly, he said; "I'm thinking about my brother. I miss him very much."

She laughed harshly, more like a bark. "Your brother is dead by now, boy! And if he's still breathing he's probably forgotten you exist. In fact, you may as well forget him as well! Think, now, use your head, do you really think a brother who cared for you would leave you alone without a word this entire time?"

Matthew gripped the broom handle, staring at a pile of dust at his feet. She left, her heels clicking against the floor.

It was true. As much as he hated her rasping voice, he could see the sense. His brother had not sent a single word to mention his existence or attempted to rescue him, as he had when they were given up for adoption.

"I'll find you, promise." He had said and hugged Matthew one final time before going to a warm looking couple.

"Okay," Matthew had muttered.

"Okay," Matthew muttered again, staring at the spot of dust. Cold light from outside filtered in through the window, illuminating that peculiar spot of dust as though it held all the answers. If his brother was dead then at least Matthew would know that he didn't stop caring. Matthew sniffed loudly, blinking back tears.

He'd forgotten what kindness was like.

Then, as thought about it the day following, while the family was out and he was supposed to prepare a dinner, he decided that he could no longer bare it. If he remained a moment more he would certainly lose his mind, or worse. He had to run away.

At the time he pictured destiny as a set of paths. If he did not jump off his path now, he'd be gone so far into it that all the others would be lost from sight, bent by the horizon. So now he had to make the leap from his dirt one to something else. If the path he chose was not gilded or finely cleaned, at least it would be better than this one. He took his belongings and stuffed them in the bag he came with, and rushed out.

For an hour he wandered through the streets, winding through alleyways, and trying his best to avoid his "family". If they valued him, which they most likely did not, they would search for him. He doubted they would. They could easily find some other desolate child and make him or her a maid.

That night he slept in a chilly and wet alleyway behind a restaurant. Rats bounded through, sniffing at him, and rushing away when he moved. A single cat blinked its glowing eyes at him. Matthew, unable to sleep, stared at it until finally something similar to dozing occurred.

Next he woke to a heavy blow to the head. His head met the cement and he struggled to see, feeling blood pour from his ear. Two muggers bent over him, grabbing his things, and kicking him once more. His body burned with pain. He had lost some money as well as all his clothing and food. Without quite knowing why, he thought it was best to close his eyes and pretend to be dead. No one else would try to kill him, then.

The blood clotted in his ear and ceased to trickle, blocking off noise from that ear for a time. The blow hadn't been heavy enough to render him lifeless, but it still throbbed and made his head vibrate dangerously when he finally stood to the eerie grey light of dawning day.

After several hours of meandering and finally breaking down in the rain, Matthew ended up at that curb. He must have wept for an hour, not caring anymore who looked at him and caring even less if he was attacked.

Matthew knew that the path he had jumped on was slightly better, but there would be no kindness anywhere. It was like searching for a gem in a field of milkweed. He'd only hurt himself in the attempt.

And then, all at once, the rain stopped.

The rain hadn't actually stopped, Matthew knew, but something had lifted it. He raised his head, blinking away the redness and puffiness from his eyes. Before him, on the grass beyond the stone, the rain continued to pour. It fell thickly, like a sheet. Slowly he turned around, brushing his hair from his eyes, and looked up at the lacquered umbrella just above him. It blocked the rain and he began to shiver.

Holding the umbrella was a man no older than thirty. His suite was made of gauzy blue material and his shoes shiny from the rain. Matthew began to sit up, rubbing his eyes. The man bent down, the umbrella still hovering over the both of them, and brought something from his breast pocket. He rubbed the object, a handkerchief, on Matthew's side.

"What's a nice young man like you doing out here in the pouring rain?" he asked. His voice came like a warm breeze on a chilly autumn day. Matthew blinked in surprise, unable to form words from shock.

"Here, keep it." The man said, placing the handkerchief in Matthew's hand. His face was ovular and the beginnings of a beard shadowed the lower half of his face. His eyes were bright and warm, the color of a pond at night. "What's your name?"

Matthew worked his mouth, swallowing a clot of emotion, and at length stammered; "M-Matthew."

"Nice to meet you, Matthew; I'm Francis." He smiled.

Matthew found himself smiling back. His heart throbbed with the sudden kindness presented. His eyes flickered down and he noticed an object bound in cloth under the man's arm.

Francis followed his gaze and let out a low, friendly chuckle. "I suppose one can't hurt." He took the box out from his grasp with on hand and, crouching, balanced it on his knees and pried off the cover. Inside, assorted in small cubes, were Turkish Delights. The delicacies were powdered in sugar fine as snow and they gave off a heavenly aroma.

"Take one." Francis said.

Matthew, hesitantly, took on. He clutched the handkerchief in his other hand. He tapped the treat against the side, letting the sugar fall back into the box, before bringing it to his lips. A smile exploded on his face and he hummed. It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. He wiped his lips with the cloth, a simple blue and red pattern on it, with a picture of a woman with an umbrella in its center, and thanked Francis.

"No matter," Francis said, laughing. "I'll tell the one who is supposed to receive this that I couldn't help but sneak a bite. They'll know then that it's so good even I, the bearer, couldn't restrain myself!" With that he offered Matthew a wink that consummated the secret between only them.

The sheen in Francis's hair and the expert brushing, as well as the quality of his suit, suggested that he was one of an extremely high class. Francis stood, still holding the umbrella out before him. Matthew watched his movements, falling into a love that would last him until the end of his life, even though he would never see Francis again.

"Do you need some help, Matthew?" Francis inquired.

Matthew stood, tucking the handkerchief into his sleeve. "No thank you. I know what I'm going to do now."

Francis nodded. Before he left, Matthew held out his hand.

"Wait, please, I just wanted to thank you."

"Thank me for what?"

"For, well, for being so nice to me."

Francis sighed deeply, as though he had considered his next words a number of times before. "What a sad world it is when we have to thank someone for an act so simple as kindness."

He brought the umbrella down, as it had ceased to rain, and the clouds began to disperse. The umbrella had gold lace along its rim and an imprint of a crane straining its neck to drink from a pool along the front, against a black back-drop. Francis shook it, with a smile, and walked away.

Matthew stood there, the taste of the Turkish Delight still lingering in his mouth, and the handkerchief pressing against his skin. He really did know what he would do next. He would find his brother and they would run away together. He'd find his way around, no matter how it drained him, for he knew that kind memory would remain constantly with him, with that cloth, and with those words. Even as he grew and the memory's clarity faded: he couldn't quite remember the shape of Francis's face of the tone of his voice, he knew that the purpose of this meeting was to shot that the destiny he chose would only get better as he trudged along.

He knew this because he'd made it this far.

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia. _


	2. Chapter 2

Matthew Williams was now a rich man. He carried a lacquered umbrella over his shoulder and a rose pin on his lapel. He walked in fine Italian shoes and his hair was cut short and neatly. He was happily married and living inside a home with a view. Every day he woke to change the world and, for the most part, he did.

Though he did not change the world the same amount each day; on December 17th, he really did change the world.

As he walked through the city, the same city a French man once bent down to give him a taste of sugary Turkish Delight that he now purchased only on days when the rain fell hard the sun grew bashful, he found his legs leading him to the spot he had wept once, long, long ago.

He stopped before it, seeing the corner still there and the print he left with his cheeks and hands gone. Instead, he found another person there.

The person stared at him with fearless and terrified eyes. She curled her feet under her, clutching at a box, pressing it to her chest. Her white shirt and blue pants were dirty and matted with blood from a cut on her arm. She stared at him for as long as he stared at her. Her lips were drawn tight, like a scar across her dirt-streaked face. Her hair was wispy and tightly pulled back.

"Hello, miss." Matthew said softly. As a tall man, he found he had to bend over often. He did not now. She stood up, nearly his height. Her legs were scrawny and only touched at the thick knees. Her wrists were bruised and bent out of shape. One of her fingers was missing. The box remained locked in its position.

"Hello." She barked. Her lips opened only briefly to utter the strong phrase before twisting back into a scowl.

"Why are you here?" Matthew looked at her cheeks, seeking a tear drop. He found none. All he found was cold, helpless defiance. She was stronger than he was. Maybe she wasn't.

"I like to be here." She retorted.

"I sat here once."

"Why?"

"I liked to be there."

She frowned, slowly understanding how he reflected her own words. The box was bound in white cloth bruised with purple and red paint. Her working fingers mulled over it. She was missing a spot of hair on the left side of her head. Her thumbnail was painted pink.

"So, why are you here really?"

The girl took the box from her chest and laid it out across her hands. She pulled the cloth away and revealed a splintered, wooden top. She pinched the ends and scraped it open, snapping one of her nails. She didn't wince. Inside was a wilted, dead flower with dappled petals and a yellowed stem.

"Is it a present?" Matthew asked, thumbing his umbrella. Across its black surface was an image of a sleeping woman.

She nodded.

"Is it for someone special to you?"

She nodded again. Her eyes went to his lapel.

"You look fancy." She barked again. Her voice was hoarse, as if her vocal cords had been treated with sand paper.

Matthew thanked her. He noticed where her eyes went. He calmly touched his lapel and removed the rose pin. The pink glass was surrounded in a thin golden frame. He held it out on his palm to show her. She didn't dare touch it. She scratched at a red spot on her cheek. He placed the pin inside the box, next to the flower.

She stared. Then she picked it up and threw it at Matthew. It hit him in the chest and flew down to the floor, cracking in two. Matthew shrugged. He had plenty of those. He told her goodbye and left.

The broken rose lay on the floor, where sugar once fell from the snowy tops of Turkish Delight. She bent down to pick up the pieces, her hands shaking. She tried to put them back together. Now tears ran freely down her cheeks, digging through dirt and blood and hardship. She noticed that the glass had come loose. She pushed it in. Once she felt it wouldn't fall, she pinned it to the front of her white shirt, giving herself a broken grin.

* * *

_A short follow-up, as by demand. _


End file.
